


and all that could have been (four heroes fics set in four other fandoms that will probably never happen)

by Satan In Purple (purple_satan)



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, F/M, Gen, bandfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-27
Updated: 2011-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_satan/pseuds/Satan%20In%20Purple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>four heroes fics set in four different fandoms i probably will never write: leverage, dexter, band!fic, house m.d.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and all that could have been (four heroes fics set in four other fandoms that will probably never happen)

**Author's Note:**

> did i have fun writing this? why yes i did! i rarely actually write crossovers because the potential for them to go terribly wrong (i'm looking at you inception/heroes bunny nipping at my toes) is greater than a story in a sole universe. or at least thats what i've come to expect.
> 
> but teasing you with them? sure, why not. insert devious grin.

**1\. the save the cheerleader, save the world job (HRG, Sylar, Micah, Jessica/Nikki, Elle, leverage!fusion)**

 _Step one, keep calm._

 _Step two, assemble a team of the best crooks and thieves you know._

 _Step three, convince them to follow your plan._

Noah Bennet has this under control.

He pours two fingers of scotch and reflects that steps one and two will be easy. Step three he’s pretty sure he can pull off even if he has to use a bit of persuasion. He can be persuasive, if the situation calls for it, and his former employer kidnapping his own daughter is definitely one of those situations calling for a great deal of persuasion, and perhaps an extreme bit of morally greyness too. Whatever gets the job done.

He looks at the team gathered around his table in Costa Verde. Most of them he’s helped put behind a Level 5 cell door at one time or another, so he’s not surprised at how warily they watch him, like any moment a company agent is going to jump out of the shadows of his living room and taze them.

 _Jessica Sanders (power: super-strength), one of the best hitters in the business. Nearly six feet of perfectly manicured, platinum blonde ferociousness wrapped up in a perfectly trained assassin’s package (and he should know, he did hand-pick and train her himself)._

 _Micah Sanders (power: technopathy), son of Nikki Sanders and hacker extraordinaire. So young and already head of a resistance group who has occasionally had not so different aims than the crew in front of him, extraction of well-known specials from detention facilities and secret organizations._

 _Elle Bishop (power: electrokinesis), sociopath, safecracker, expert in security systems and home invasion. Her turn against her father was somewhat surprising, but not entirely. Clearly a sociopath with no moral code to adhere to, he figured she’d defect if enough was in the bargain. (He won’t mention what else, but he’s seen the way her cornflower blue eye’s linger on him a little too long and knows how to play that card against her just right with the briefest brush of his hand on her shoulder here, on the small of her back there.)_

And then there is _Sylar (original power: intuitive aptitude, current list of powers: exact amount unknown)_ , holding a cup of tea, wearing his daughter’s face and smirking in the doorway.

“So you all know why you are here,” he begins, trying to keep composure and not be rattled by Sylar’s petty antics. “Here’s the prize if you complete the retrieval mission properly.”

Noah holds the only copy of their extensive case files in his hand, a better reward than any payoff ever could be, the promise of perfect anonymity and chance to return to a normal life of not being hunted if they so choose.

“I know you all want my blood, and some of you,” he gives a pointed look to Sylar and Elle, “want each other’s, but I’m sure you want company blood even more to put aside our differences. And I want to make it very clear once she is out of there and safe, you can do whatever you want to them. I want to make them pay for taking my Claire the best way I know how, so what we are going to do is-“

“Go steal us a company?” Sylar offers innocently, and yeah, that was pretty much what he was going to say they go do.

He doesn’t care if this ends up being an eventual partnership for the greater good, or that this is going to make them all tons of money once it’s done and take the well-respected Petrelli name down in flames, all he cares about is that he is going to get his daughter back from the company, and he’s going to make sure they pay for it in every single way he knows how.

 **2\. the love is in the blood (Dexter, Sylar crossover)**

Tonight’s the night.

I can feel my dark passenger is anxious as I drive, wants this particular one already on his table and in his slide collection badly.

Wanted by the FBI, several state police, and probably a slew of unnamed individual groups, Gabriel Gray aka. Sylar has finally reached Miami and is in my crosshairs now, after a file full of photos involving a particularly grizzly string of murders with his trademark M.O. hit my desk. I’ve been charting this man’s course, his killings, his metamorphosis from an unknown watchmaker to serial murderer almost to an obsessive degree (I am a thorough investigator, the code of Harry demands it of me) and now he’s come to me, to my town.

It’s like Christmas come early, he’s all but wrapped up in plastic and on my table with a quaint little bow, the type Rita would have picked out.

And there will be blood, so much blood.

He’s not a neat monster like I am, there’s a certain carefree arrogance to his crime scenes a part of me abhors and another part of me wishes could be liberated in the same way. Maybe I should ask him about it, how it feels to live a life not in the shadows, being your full potential instead of maintaining the mask I’ve so long had to wear. Maybe I’ll treat him to the part of me only the soon to be dearly departed get to know before I let my confessions end along with him. Maybe I will feel it myself tonight emulating him in what I can only hope is a decent homage to someone nearly as prolific as I.

Tonight is going to be different. Forgoing my own trademark knife, I’ll trade 7” of stainless steel in my hand for my reciprocal saw right off the bat. And when I lobotomize Gabriel Grey aka. Sylar, the currently prized occupant of my trunk, there will be blood just like in the pictures I’ve looked at for so long, memorized, practically drooled over imitating in my mind, as I cut the dark haired man’s scalp clean off just like his victims.

 _Brian Davis, Trevor Zeitlan, Zane Taylor, Dale Smithers, Isaac Mendez,_ I could go on and on with this list but I know how important the first kills are, so I’ll use their photos to remind him.

Tonight will mark the end of the “Boogeyman killer”, of Sylar’s gory swath he’s cut across America I can only imagine is in search of release. He will be gone. The code demands it.

Tonight Harry will be proud, and the dark passenger will be sated once more.

Tonight’s the night. I know I’m going to savor this one.

 **3\. everything goes to hell on a tuesday (Peter, Sylar, Zane, Isaac, band!fic)**

Everything goes to hell on a Tuesday.

It all starts with Isaac arriving to practice almost an hour late, after going on an obvious bender, reeking of cigarettes, turpentine, and the stench of perspiration. His hands shake, barely even able to keep the drumsticks in his grip, and Gabriel figures this session is pretty much over before it began. On top of that, Virginia is already calling since practice should be nearly over if it was any other day, and he doesn’t even want to try and deal with his mother’s insistent demands that her son stop being so foolish by continuing to be a member in an obviously dead-end band at 27, because special boys don’t stay in silly childhood bands when they should be CEO’s, presidents, or something more than the sole owner of a timepiece restoration shop in Queens and member in an admittedly boring alt-rock band.

But he won’t give it up, he likes the rush, the thrill of playing in front of a packed crowd (which has happened, infrequently, but occasionally) gives him an indescribable feeling of elation, of being someone.

Of being _special._

Peter has more hope for the afternoon not being already bunk, tries to get things on track and in some semblance of a practice set again for their gig Friday by going over their rather short set list the currently have, as Zane nervously checks and rechecks their equipment in an almost obsessive fashion.

“Your guitar is out of tune,” Gabriel comments to him, as he picks up his bass, slides his fingers reverently against the strings and waits for Peter to hear what he knows is the truth.

“I just tuned it,” Peter states, frowning while fiddling with the knobs on his strat, but getting nowhere. Gabriel cocks his head to the side, before motioning for Peter to give him the guitar, which he eventually obliges to.

“Whatever, Gabe.”

As he tunes Peter’s guitar, he realizes he should probably mention Zane’s guitar is out of tune too.

“Zane-“ Gabriel begins, as he hands Peter his guitar back, but shuts his mouth as soon as he realizes there is no more guitar to tune. Instead he’s looking at a viscous black puddle on the practice room floor where his guitar once was.

They all stand speechless, Zane visibly blanching before retching on the ground near his once glorious Gibson Les Paul, and a thrilling tingle crawls up Gabriel’s spine when his mind processes that Zane somehow did that.

“What the fuck, man,” Isaac finally blurts out, dropping his drumsticks and shaking his head. “What in the fucking fuck just happened?”

“I-“ Gabriel begins, but honestly, he doesn’t know.

 _Yet._

 **4\. you say intuitive aptitude, i say i’m just surrounded by morons (house m.d. crossover, House, Cameron, Sylar)**

The next time House visits the patient’s room, John Doe is awake, complaining loudly of a headache and dizziness from the slew of meds they currently have him on for the jumble of symptoms he has (blood loss, amnesia, headaches, dizziness, fever to begin the list). He cocks his head to the side, studying House in a disturbingly reptilian fashion he’s mirrored so well before, wets his lips and speaks in a voice cracked from disuse.

“You’re like me, aren’t you… Dr. House?”

“Oh, yes. Two peas in a pod, “ House lazily drawls. “We should buy matching sweater vests from Dorktown USA.”

He looks up to see John Doe, heavy eyebrows set in a clear scowl. “Unless you’re claiming amnesia as far as dressing yourself goes too.”

“Where am I?”

“Princeton-Plainsboro hospital. No ID, no family, no visitors. What’s your story?”

“I…” he pauses for a moment, thoughtful. “I don’t know. What did you say the small man’s name was that was just in here?”

“Taub,” Cameron replies reflexively, before gritting her teeth together in obvious annoyance at their unknown patient.

 _Interesting._

“I was a Taub once, I think,” he says dreamily, as if searching for a fond memory. “And a Petrelli once too. Neither stuck very well.” John Doe turns, staring at a quivering Cameron who squares her jaw, despite her shaking hands holding his IV line. “Come now. If I wanted your power, you know I would have already taken it. Would you be a dear and bring me something to read?”

 _Power?_

House watches the exchange with mild interest, filing it for later use and possibly blackmail. If this guy has teeth enough to work up Cameron, surely that juicy tidbit will be worth hanging over her head one day for a favor, maybe he can at least get her to write him a new vicodin scrip later, sans sanctimonious lecture.

Ever since he first hired her, he’s always known how to pluck the strings and play his immunologist just right, and it’s no exception when he corners her in his office later, watching as her body visibly tenses when he pulls up a chair right next to her instead of across, and whispers in the shell of her pretty little ear. They’ve had plenty of encounters like these in this very room, bordering on illicit, the memories of which flit through his brain in perfect detail as if he just experienced them, remembering the shape and weight of each fondly. How his hands still could span her tiny waist like then, how perfect her lips tasted, how she looked when tiny tears clung to her eyelashes and wanted him to be things they both knew he never could.

“Cameron, how do you know our John Doe?” He asks, voice low, tucking an errant strand of blonde hair behind her ear, before pulling back and staring at her with the same resolute intensity that he knows instantly attracted her, blue eyes boring into her, searching for clues to suss out this particular part of the greater puzzle that is John Doe.

“And don’t tell me it’s because you two are suffering in the same world of delusions and you have a pretty power you aren’t telling me about.”

Cameron’s eyes widen as she takes a nervous gulp at his statement. He watches her as she reflexively tugs at the hems of her sleeves, drawing further in and away from him like a wilting flower. Whatever it is, it’s something she’s been hiding, tamping down in an attempt to forget. The whole situation screams of latent trauma, but something is missing from that diagnosis too.

 _If only he could write it down, scribble it out and search for a pattern…_

Maybe later.

“Our John Doe… his name is Gabriel G-Gray,” she begins shakily, stammering as she says his name. “He’s wanted for questioning and a suspect in his mother’s murder.”

 _Well that explains a lot,_ but something still doesn’t make sense, isn’t fitting into place, like how a girl from the Midwest living in New Jersey knows about a killer in New York.

 _One of these things is not like the other,_ a child’s voice sing-song’s in his head as he recalls the information he knows. “His chart says he was found in Queens. You watch a lot of New York news, Cameron?”

“I have a friend personally affected by the death of Virginia Gray,” she replies a little too fast to be true and a thrilling tingle goes up his spine as he sees through her lie.

 _By golly, Cameron, you make a terrible liar._

“Try again _sweet-cheeks_ , this time with a little bit more conviction if you want me to believe it,” he drawls, touching her cheek with the back of his hand softly before resting it on her shoulder, gently reminding her you can’t con a misanthrope who lives by the mantra _everybody lies_.

And she crumbles, shies away from his touch and falls apart while he completely and utterly fails at comforting her. “He tried to… House, but I didn’t let him. I fought,” she finally chokes out, silent tears running wet tracks along her face, and he should have known, should have easily guessed. “I was visiting a friend who moved to Queens a few years ago and my car broke down. He just… appeared out of nowhere and knew, but I was able to get away.”

“Did you-“ he begins, wondering if Chase knows or if it’s one of the few secrets only theirs, before finding that much sought after tact he rarely displays, abruptly shutting his mouth and letting Cameron continue.

“He looked different back then, but I know it was him.”

And that admission, he knows is the truth.


End file.
